Page 80 of My Pucked Up Enemy

But it’s still enough to unravel me.

***

When I finally get home, it’s like my body’s ready to crash but my mind refuses to shut up. I toss my bag down, change into sweats, and lay flat on the couch staring at the ceiling.

Nothing.

Then too much. The shot. The miss. The look on Coach’s face.

I even try one of Nina’s breathing exercises—inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four—but all it does is make me more aware of how tense I am.

I flip through some meditation app she once recommended and stick my phone under a pillow to block out the voice telling me I’m a failure.

Eventually, after hours of tossing and turning and mentally recapping every frame of the third period, exhaustion finally drags me under.

Sleep comes late, heavy and dreamless.

***

The next morning, after a few restless hours of sleep, I wake up still groggy, my muscles sore from tossing and turning more than from the game itself. My brain hasn’t slowed down, and the loss is still circling like a vulture.

I drive straight to the facility. I don’t call or even text. I just park, grab my bag, and walk inside like the building owes me something.

Down the hall, I notice her door’s cracked. A soft lamp glows inside.

I knock twice and step in before she can answer.

She looks up from her laptop, eyebrows rising. She’s in a dark sweater and black jeans, hair half up, no makeup. Still looks like she could slice through my ego with two words and a pencil.

"Wasn’t expecting you."

"Rough night."

She closes her laptop. "Yeah, I saw."

I drop into the chair, not bothering to ease into it. "Can we skip the pleasantries and go straight to fixing my brain?"

Nina gets up and walks around her desk. "Well, since you asked so sweetly."

I let out a breath. "Sorry. I’m… I just keep replaying it. That shot. Over and over. Like it’s on a loop."

"That’s normal."

"It’s torture."

"Also normal."

She perches on the edge of her desk. "Okay. Walk me through the moment from your point of view."

"We were tied. Six minutes left. I was dialed in, or I thought I was. Then that forward, what’s his name, Holtz? He took a lazy shot. I didn’t track it. My feet stuck. My glove lagged. I saw the puck go in, and the second it did, I felt the bottom drop out."

"What did you tell yourself?"

"That I blew it. That everyone in the arena knew I blew it."

She writes something on the clipboard. "What would you tell Connor if he missed an open net?"

I shrug. "That it’s one shift. One mistake. Move on."

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